


These Endless Nights

by princesskay



Series: Claire/Frank Missing Scenes [3]
Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s02e02 Chapter 15, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 15:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11970678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princesskay/pseuds/princesskay
Summary: On the day of their wedding, Claire confessed her darkest secret. Thirty years later, a military awards ceremony breaks the moratorium she placed on the subject, and forces her to confront the truth - the past cannot be erased.





	1. 30 Years Ago

The drawl of the organ is a distant tune beyond the edges of my preoccupied mind. The room is warm, sunlit. Overhead, the ceiling fan clicks with every rotation. Gaffney’s little church couldn’t scrape together enough money for central air no matter how many collections they take up. 

I’m sweating beneath the heavy silk and chiffon of my gown, but that’s all right. My face is pristine, the salon’s work hair-sprayed into place. The only sign of my discomfort is the slight flush on my cheeks and throat; and anyone could take that for wedding-day jitters. 

Jitters doesn’t come close to describing the cloud of butterflies in my belly, the stampede of my heartbeat knocking like bass drums against my poor, fragile ribs. 

I draw in a trembling breath, and reach up to anxiously touch my perfectly coiffed hair. Coated in a dozen different products and hairspray, it’s hard and foreign to my fingertips. For half a second, I wish I’d foregone the style. But Mother had insisted, and if I can persuade her anywhere close to being satisfied on this day, I’ll do just about anything. The last thing I want is for her to make a scene, over something as trivial as my hairstyle. 

It’s the man waiting for me at the altar that she contends against. Only my father’s goodwill has brought her close-lipped and smiling to the church this morning. 

She isn’t here with me now - that much I’ll remember in twenty years. 

The door swings open behind me. 

“Claire?”

I turn from the mirror, nearly stepping on the edge of my train. 

“Uh, yes?”

One of my bridesmaid’s, Sarah, a friend from college, pokes her head past the door with a concerned gaze. 

“Almost ready?” 

“Yes, yes.”

Sarah eases inside, and leans into the door until it clicks shut. 

“Don’t worry, you look beautiful. Perfect, actually.” 

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

“Frank will think so.” 

“He always does.”

“He’s right.” 

I reassert my gaze to the mirror, staring down my reflection, and the melancholy glint in my blue eyes. It’s hardly noticeable. And it’s shameful that a woman should be sad on her wedding day. I’ve spent the last six months mapping out every tiny detail with the wedding planner; I should be overjoyed for my success, not to mention the marital bliss promised to stem from this single afternoon. 

“What’s wrong?” Sarah presses. 

“Nothing. I’m nervous, that’s all.” 

“It’s fine to be nervous.” 

Sarah steps up behind me, and places her hands on my shoulders. Bending forward, she smiles whimsically at my reflection. 

“I would kill to be you, you know.” 

I suppress a chuckle, “Francis wouldn’t take you.” 

She swats my shoulder playfully. “I mean you’re gorgeous, you know that! Besides, you can keep Frank; he’s a bit too brash for me anyway.” 

“He’s not brash. He’s …. confident.” 

Sarah tugs on my arm. “We should go. You don’t want to be late to your own wedding, do you?” 

I shake my head. 

She drags me away from the mirror, robbing me of my last chance to rearrange my expression to one of excitement and joy. I muster a smile without the safety of seeing my work in the mirror. A small prayer is the last thing I can do before we step out into the lobby where the wedding party awaits. 

 

~

 

My father calls me his “sweet girl.” He’s proud of me, I know. 

My mother is sitting in the front row when we pass, dabbing the corner of her eye with a handkerchief. They aren’t tears of joy. 

I offer her a cool smile as I sail past. I would hold a cup to her cheek, gather every tear, and drink the salty flavor if I could. She’s caused me years of bitterness and contention, and I’ve done the thing she feared most. I’m marrying a man she doesn’t approve of, and there’s not a goddamn thing she can do. 

My father approves - he’s already promised to help fund Francis’ campaign. He’s always had the final say. 

I feel like a piece of meat being tugged between two vicious dogs. They both love me dearly, but I can never be shared as I am. I would have to rend myself in two to be the truly perfect daughter. With Francis’ ring on my hand, I’ll be free of their jaws, walking away whole…

Francis. 

I turn my gaze from my mother to him as we approach the steps. He’s beaming with joy, and he’s never looked so handsome. The look in his eyes makes me forget all my doubts - and for this moment, I can’t recall my sadness. 

As we join hands, I allow this gaze to sweep me away. His vows, uttered in a devoted whisper, are like a protective chant - bidding all the demons away from my doorstep. 

My mother told me I was rushing into something I don’t understand. That marriage is a massive commitment that requires the greatest trust, and the deepest love. That infatuation doesn’t equal longevity of our union. That after the honeymoon wears off, I’ll realize I’m in over my head. 

Francis tells me he’s going to love me until death. 

And I believe him. 

 

~

 

His hands wrap over mine, guiding the knife through the cake in two, clean lines. Together, we lay the piece of cake on a small plate, and each take a fork. 

I’m laughing as we feed each other a bite, and the rich, sweet taste fills my mouth. He kisses the corner of my mouth, licking away a stray dash of icing. 

The cameras are flashing, capturing this picturesque moment. 

I open my eyes to see the crowd of well-wishers clapping and cheering, holding the wedding bells aloft in a demand for a romantic display. 

And Francis is nothing if not a performer. 

Wrapping an arm around my waist, he tips me back, and plants a sound kiss on my mouth. When he lifts me again, I’m slightly dizzy, clutching onto his tuxedo lapels. 

“All right, all right!” Francis says, waving his hand to subdue our guests. “Don’t let Claire and I have all the fun! Come on up, grab a piece of cake, and a plate of food. We’ve got plenty to go around!” 

A line to the food forms rapidly as Francis leads me to the wedding party’s table at the front of the reception hall. 

His hands don’t leave me as we sit. 

“I haven’t gotten the chance to tell you how ravishing you look.” He whispers. 

I duck my head, feeling the warmth of a blush on my cheeks. 

“You look very handsome yourself.” 

“Thank you. Even a Southern boy like myself can shine up well when he wants to.” 

I lean into his embrace, resting my head against his shoulder despite the threat of damaging my hairstyle. 

“You want a piece of cake? Something to eat?” He asks. 

I shake my head. “Let’s just sit here for a little while.” 

“I’m sure you’re exhausted. You’ve put a lot of work into today.” 

“It turned out well, I think.” 

“It was all perfect. Including you.” 

I hum a response. Someone is photographing us from across the room, and I wish I could keep this moment private. 

“What do you say we try to get home as soon as possible?” Francis asks, “Let you get some sleep before our plane leaves tomorrow?” 

“All your friends are here. I’m sure you’ll want to spend time with them.” 

“You’re my wife; you’re more important than them.” 

I lift my head suddenly, a smile rushing unbidden to my cheeks. 

“What?” He asks. 

“Nothing, I just … That’s the first time you’ve been able to call me your wife.” 

“I like it, don’t you?” 

“I do.” 

We hold our gaze for a second longer before he leans in to kiss me gently. Unlike the ceremonial kiss and the flashy one during the cake cutting, this one is slow and soft. Real. The kind that take my breath away. 

One guest notices the kiss, and the rest soon follow, whooping and ringing their tiny bells. Francis catches me by the jaw before I can retreat, and kisses me harder, just to please them. 

The eyes on us are prying; I feel exposed. Francis loves the attention, but I can’t wait to be alone in our bridal suite. 

 

~

 

Conversation tilts in Francis’ direction when the bridal party finally gets a chance to eat. I sit quietly by his side, happy to let him go on about his plans to run for Congress, his political aspirations and ideas. 

He’s the orator between us; he could keep them entertained for hours. And I would sit here and listen for all of them if it meant not interacting any more than I have to. 

The meal is over too soon. We’ve drunk our share of champagne, and someone has suggested they all get up and do a little karaoke. Francis is pulled away, leaving me at the table alone except for a few of my bridesmaids, who are engaged in half-drunken conversation. 

I snatch my glass of champagne, tilting it too quickly to my mouth. It spills past my lips, dashing over my chin, and down the front of my gown. 

“Shit.” 

Snatching a napkin, I try to wipe the alcohol from the silk fabric, but it’s already absorbing. 

“Dish detergent and white vinegar should do the trick.” 

I look up to see Mother approaching the table, a thin smile curling her mouth. 

“I know. You taught me that.” 

“Well, I’m glad to hear you admitting I taught you at least one thing.” 

Tossing the napkin on the table, I let out a sigh. “You don’t have to be catty, Mother.” 

Much to my chagrin, she sits down in the chair next to me instead of taking the retort for a sign that she should leave. 

“He can sing, that’s for sure.” She says, turning her gaze toward the front of the reception hall. 

Francis and his friends are singing “Oh, My Darling Clementine” to a rapt crowd. His voice soars louder than all the rest, as it so often does. 

“Yes he can.” I say. 

“You know, Claire, I just want you to be happy-”

“Please, Mother. Don’t pretend that all the fights we’ve had the last few months were for my benefit.” 

“It’s the truth.” 

“I am happy.” I say, taking another sip of the champagne. “I’m happy with Francis.”

“I hope you’re sure-”

“I’m more sure about this than I’ve ever been about anything. He loves me.  _ Unconditionally _ .” 

I shoot her a cutting gaze. She knows what I’m implying without my having to say it. 

“I’m only asking because I worry about you.” She says, “You seemed upset earlier.” 

“When?” 

“This morning.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Well, I saw a look in your eyes, and I thought-”

“Well, you thought wrong. This is the happiest day of my life.” 

Grabbing my glass of champagne, I get up from the table, and march away. I find my way into the kitchen, where half a dozen people are working on replenishing the food. 

“Is there more champagne?” I demand. 

They all pause from what they’re doing to look at me. 

It must be a sight. The bride in her stained gown, glass in her fist, tears in her eyes. None of them will utter a word of it. They’re being paid too much. 

“Yes, ma’am.” One of the ladies says, at last. “Shall I refill your glass?” 

“Just give me the bottle.” 

She ducks her head. “Yes, ma’am.” 

Wiping her hands on her apron, she goes to one of the refrigerators and pulls out an unopened bottle. She brings it back to me, her eyes downcast. 

“Thank you.” I say, snatching it from her. 

I turn on my heel and leave the kitchen, ignoring the ripple of curious whispers I leave in my wake. I take the glass and the bottle out of the reception hall, into the lobby, and past the front doors of the church. 

Outside, the sun it blazing over Gaffney. The summer air is cloying and humid, bringing a sheen of sweat instantly to my brow. 

I take the champagne around the shady side of the building, and plop down in the grass. Breaking open the bottle, I pour myself a glass, and sip down the sharp, bubbling flavor. I wish I had something stronger, but this is a wedding -  _ my  _ wedding. 

_ Christ.  _

All my labor, all my love that I had put into this day. I’m hanging it all from the thin thread of dusty, painful memories and bitter disappointments. 

Suddenly, I hate this heavy, suffocating gown. I hate the hairspray melting in my hair. I hate the pearls around my neck - the borrowed thing that my mother insisted on. I hate the well-wishers, the cheers, the presents, the party. 

The only good thing is the diamond on my finger. It doesn’t lie. 

After I finish off the first glass, I lay it aside. I tilt the bottle to my lips instead, strangely pleased with the barbaric nature of my rebellion. What would my mother think? 

I swallow down several gulps of champagne, and drag the bottle away, panting. My mouth tingles, and my head swims. I take another swig, spilling drops of alcohol on my chest. I don’t try to wipe it away as it trickles down the front of the gown. 

I sit there in the grass for what feels like an eternity, drinking the champagne, watching the sun sink and the sky fill with pastel color. No one comes looking for me - and I’m not sure if I prefer it that way, or if I’m hurt that no one has noticed my absence. 

Francis is likely regaling them with tales of the Sentinel. He could entertain them all night. The focus is on him, just as he prefers. 

But what of my mother? My handful of friends who have followed me from Texas to South Carolina for this joyous occasion? Perhaps they’re already gone, their duty worn out. Perhaps they’re just as disatisfied with this night as I am. 

The sky is deepening to pink and purple when I at last hear footsteps on the grass. 

I look up to see Francis marching around the corner of the building. He’s lost his jacket, and his starched collar is hanging open, bowtie dangling loose around his neck. His hair is awry, his face lined with concern. 

When his gaze finds me sitting in the grass, relief spills across his expression. 

“Claire, I’ve been looking all over for you.” 

“I wanted to watch the sunset.” I lie, motioning with the half-empty champagne bottle toward the sky. 

He stands over me, his hands poised on his hips. 

“You had me worried sick.” 

“I’m sorry. Did my mother not tell you?” 

“No, she didn’t.” 

“She saw me leave. I know she did.” 

“I haven’t seen her either.” 

I give a forced chuckle, and shake my head. “She’s probably already gone.” 

“Did she upset you?” 

He crouches down next to me, and reaches out to snag my chin between his thumb and forefinger. I meet his eyes, finding it impossible to hide the rage of emotion with his intuitive gaze searing into me. 

My face twists with the abrupt clutch of tears, and I yank my chin free of his hand. 

“Claire!” He says, alarmed. 

Pressing a hand to my face, I hide the tears squeezing from my eyelids as a sob twists my chest in forced silence. I feel his hand on my shoulder, wrenching me towards him. I struggle, but only for a second. He wraps me tight against his chest, and cradles my face into his neck with a hand at my nape. 

“Tell me what’s wrong.” 

I shake my head. A strangled sob rends free of my throat, producing a guttural moan into his neck. 

“If it was your mother, you know I’ll tell her to her face what she’s done.” 

I shake my head again, vehement. Shoving my fists into his chest, I twist away from the embrace. He holds onto my arms as I swipe at my cheeks, smearing mascara and tears. 

“It’s not her.” I say, my voice low and hoarse. 

“Then what is it?” 

I sniff hard, forcing myself to contain the emotion. Breathing deep and steady, I place my hands carefully on his chest. 

“Francis, please, don’t make me-”

“This is our wedding day. I find you sobbing in the grass, drunk - and you won’t tell me what’s wrong? I don’t think so.” 

I love him for his tenacity, his fierceness. And he’s right to wrench this secret from behind the walls of my heart, but in this raw, aching moment, I hate him for it. 

“I wanted this day to be perfect.”I whisper, rubbing the heel of my hand across my wet cheek. “I tried so hard-”

“It was, Claire. It was.” 

I slowly lift my watery gaze to his. His brow twists, and his jaw clenches at the sight of me. I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for him. 

He gently pushes my hand away from my cheek, replacing it with his own. His thumb strokes away the tears, the smeared make-up. 

“This isn’t because I’m having doubts.” I whisper, “I’m not.” 

He nods, a measure of relief lighting his eyes. 

“I have to tell you something.” 

The words ring hollow in my head, as if I’ve lost connection to my own body. There’s a faint ringing in my ears - not church bells, but fear. Cold, clutching fear that uttering these words will end whatever sacredness that stands between us. 

“All right.” He says. 

He lowers himself to the grass beside me, and takes my hand. He gives a reassuring squeeze, though he has no idea what I’m about to admit. 

“Something happened …” I begin, my voice wavering, “... freshman year of college, I was-”

My confession halts right there, the steel fist of dread shoving into the back of my throat. A low breeze spills across the yard, rustling through the leaves, inciting the dull hum of cicadas. The sunset soaks everything in golden light, so bright it hurts my aching, watering eyes. Color fades fast from the sky, draining away into darkness. 

I want to say the words before we’re in shadows, before the dark promises the safety of hidden secrets. 

“Claire.” He says, giving my hand a nudge. 

I clear my throat, hardly realizing how long I’ve been silent for. 

“Freshman year?” He asks. 

“I was dating someone.” I say, “We weren’t together long.” 

His hand curls tighter around my fingers. I can feel the weight of his gaze even as I press my eyes shut. The emotion drums between us; his fingers are on the pulse of my pain, absorbing the ebb and flow of suppressed agony and rage. 

“I tried to break it off.” I whisper, my voice whispy and choked, “He … he …”

“Claire-”

“Please, don’t speak. I have to say this.” 

“You don’t have to.”

I swallow desperately against the knot in my throat, tasting the unspoken words gathering and souring at the back of my tongue. My chest has long been a prison for these small arrangement of syllables. The fiery rage has dulled to a low but constant burn, and the pain and humiliation are nothing but scar tissue. But they are there; they are heavy, constant, and louder than all the promises I’ve made to myself. 

“He …” I press on, barely forming the tiny word before my throat clutches, and my eyes burn with fresh tears. The next words, which I have never spoken to anyone else, come from the back of my throat in a strangled whimper, “He raped me, Francis.” 

I clutch both hands over my face as I wilt toward my lap. It’s as if a beast living inside me has taken its exit, leaving a hollow void, filled only with agony that longs for it’s counterpart of rage. I can’t hold onto that anger with Francis next to me; but the pain - the pain is eternal. 

Beyond the dull roar in my head, I hear Francis draw in a sharp breath. His hand clutches around mine, so hard I can feel my bones grinding against one another. 

For a moment, the church yard is silent except for the mocking chirp of cicadas. They’re indifferent, and loud, intruding upon this secret like a thousand tiny listeners. 

Then Francis lets go of my hand, and takes me by the shoulders. Guiding my limp body toward him, he wraps both arms around me, and presses his mouth against my hairline. I feel the hot rush of his breath, the low rasp of angered breaths in the back of his throat. Beneath my palm, his heart hammers out steady, incensed blows. 

It’s as if he’s swallowed my anger; I can feel him brimming and burning with it, and I know the dull sickness that comes with that type of insurmountable emotion. 

“Who is he?” 

The words grind from his throat. The threat in his voice doesn’t frighten me, but it doesn’t reassure me either. 

“It doesn’t matter.” I whisper into his chest. 

“The hell it doesn’t.” 

I pull back, finding his gaze dark, blazing, lethal. 

“What would you do?” I whisper, “If I told you? Track him down? Hurt him?” 

“Hurt isn’t good enough.” 

I shake my head. Wrapping my fingers around his shirt collar, I ensure he won’t leave my side for the next words out of my mouth. 

“It won’t change what happened. And I won’t give him a foothold between us by giving him a name.”

“What does that mean?” 

“If I name him, you’ll know. You’ll imagine it. You’ll see me underneath him, and I don’t want you to see that.”

“He deserves to pay.” 

“But that was my right, and I didn’t take it. I didn’t report him because I didn’t want that attention.” 

“How did you expect me to respond?” He asks, defeat hedging at his tone. 

“I just wanted to be honest with you. I didn’t want to lie to you for the rest of my life.”

We share a long gaze. His eyes are dark and brimming with formidable love and devotion; I know he would kill for me. But it’s enough that he’s still here; that this wedding is due diligence, that it’s just another party, that he doesn’t care I’m sitting in the grass in my wedding gown, drunk and crying. That we’re so much more than our history, no matter how painful it might be. 

I sink into his embrace, weak with relief. He lifts me across his lap, and cradles me to his chest. I rest my head against his beating heart, hearing safety in every percussion. 

“You don’t know how relieved I feel right now.” I whisper. 

“Relieved?” 

His hand strokes my hair, rhythmic, soothing. 

“You have to understand … being a victim of something that- ... It makes you feel things that don’t necessarily make sense.”

“I couldn’t imagine.” 

“It’s pure terror …”

His fingers grip around my shoulder, and his hand pauses against my temple. I can feel the rigidity claiming his shoulders, the cold vacuum of unbearable rage taking his chest. 

“Whoever would do such a thing should have a special circle of hell reserved for them.” He says, each word spitting out harsh and disgusted. 

“No, I mean … the thought of telling you, it was terrifying me. I felt nauseous this morning.” 

He stills. Silence stretches on for what feels like an eternity. 

Finally, I lift my head out of drumming fear. Fear of what I’ll see in his eyes. 

Does he think I don’t trust him? Love him enough? Know that his love his enough? 

But when our eyes meet again, I don’t see the burn of anger that had resided in his gaze before; only a deep, powerful somberness that echoes in tune with my aching heart. 

“What do you want, Claire?” He asks, reaching up to cradle my face. 

I look away, but his hands clutch tighter around my cheeks, nudging my gaze back to his. 

“ _ Anything _ .” He says. 

“We were what we are before I told you.” I say, “I don’t want to be a victim.” 

“You’re not. You’re a survivor, and you’re one of the strongest people I know.” 

I nod. It’s a relief to hear him say it, even though I knew in my heart my confession wouldn’t change a thing. I just wanted the reassurance before this day is over. 

“I want one thing.” I say. 

“Anything at all.” 

“I never want to talk about this again.” 

His brows furrow in muted surprise for a moment before he nods. 

“Whatever you want.” 

I settle back down against his chest, nestling my cheek against the thrum of his heart. 

“I don’t want it to define me. Or us.” I murmur.

“It won’t.”

I close my eyes, and let out a slow sigh. He’s so certain. I wish my own optimism extended so far. 

He holds me for a long time. We don’t speak except for the small strokes of fingers against one another, the languid circle of his palm against my back. When I open my eyes again, the sun has sunk below the horizon, and the sky has faded to gray and dark blue. It’s dark, but the dark doesn’t frighten me anymore. 


	2. Today

It’s not dark anymore. Beyond the translucent gossamer of the curtains, the sky is gray, figures wreathed in fading shadow. Somewhere between night and day, the world is silent and dusky. It could have been peaceful, except for the din of my thoughts. 

I haven’t slept. When I close my eyes, that painful night comes rushing back to me in crystal clear detail. I remember the taste of the cotton sheets shoved in my mouth, the pressure on my lungs as I panicked, trying to breathe through my nose. The pain of him forcing his way inside me. And lastly, the almost gentle way he kissed my shoulder when he was done. 

I’ve spent years burying it, only to have it resurrect itself from it’s carefully plotted grave in the course of a few hours. 

I can hear Francis pacing downstairs, but it’s not the minor creak of the floorboards keeping me awake. I offered him my best kept secret on our wedding night, and asked the impossible - no questions, no details, no sympathy. As if that night never existed. Seeing his reaction tonight, I know it’s been killing him inside, and the ceremony was only the final straw to years of silence and secrets. 

I scorn my youthful wish. 

Nothing is ever dead, ever buried, ever fully gone. The past cannot be erased. The pain I have held inside for so long has not been dormant, but rather a ticking time bomb, looming larger and more deadly with every passing year. 

I cannot stay silent any longer. 

Throwing back the sheets, I rise from the bed. Though my body feels tired, my brain is alert, almost hyper-aware in these hours that stretch beyond exhaustion. 

I slip out of the bedroom and down the stairs, my feet silent as a cat on the wood slats.

The light is on the entry room. Francis sits on the couch, nursing three fingers of bourbon - a stiff drink so early in the morning … or so late at night. The distinction is lost in the shadows, in the dull undercurrent of heartbreak and violent wishes that stretch between us like unspooled thread. 

“Francis.” 

He startles, turning around on the couch to see me hovering at the base of the stairs. 

“Did I wake you?” 

“I didn’t sleep.” 

A frown touches his brow. After a lengthy moment of concerned silence, he waves me toward him. 

I cross the room, and round the couch to where he sits. He’s stripped down to his trousers and white t-shirt, looking less like the Vice President and more like my husband. 

I sit down next to him, and rub the edge of the my sleeve between my thumb and forefinger. 

He offers me the bourbon. I take a healthy sip, swallowing back the sharp, burning flavor without wincing. 

“A couple more of these and maybe I will sleep.” I say, managing a brief chuckle. 

He takes the glass back, and takes a drink. “You should. It’s been a long, hard day.” 

“And you?” 

“I’ll be fine.” 

I purse my lips. Fine - he always is. 

“Francis-”

“You already said too much.” He says, gently, lifting a hand. “You don’t have to explain.” 

I shake my head. “I should have never asked what I did of you.” 

“What’s that?” 

“On our wedding night. I dumped that secret on you, and then I refused to let you in, to let you see-”

“See what? It was like you said, if I had known all these years it was McGinnis, it would have made me sick.” 

“But you’re sick now. And all I did was put off the inevitable.” 

“Well, we can’t change the past.” 

I draw in a shaky breath. He’s locked up tight like a drum now. Angry. Not at me, but at McGinnis. Angry at his own inability to do anything but pin a medal on the man who hurt me. 

We sit in silence for several long moments, listening to the clock tick off the moments of this endless night. We share the bourbon until it’s gone, and then Francis pours out more from the tumbler. 

I put my hand on his wrist to stop the ascent of the glass to his lips. 

“I should have trusted you.” 

“You did. You trusted me enough to tell me what happened.” 

“When have we ever kept secrets from each other?” 

“You’re questioning this now? Twenty eight years later?” 

I look away, shaking my head. 

I recall that night clearly. The breezy, September air, tainted with the scent of wildflowers, had stirred around our huddled position at the side of the church, and the hum of cicadas had all but drowned out my drumming heartbeat. I can remember the fear, the nausea, every thought process. But it doesn’t make sense now. 

“We’ve both changed so much since then. We were just children …” 

His fingers wrap around mine, dragging my knuckles to his mouth. I keep my gaze averted as his lips traverse each bump and groove, warm breath spilling down to my wrist. 

“Fear can be one of the strongest motivators of all.” He whispers. “You should count yourself brave for telling me at all. I didn’t want all the horrifying details - not really. That’s not what I resent.” 

“Maybe it’s what _ I _ resent. At the time, I thought telling you the truth might make you see me differently.” 

My youthful self is a reflection in my memory that I barely recognize - a young, Texan girl with long, brunette hair and a myriad of insecurities. That girl didn’t trust Francis the way I do. She didn’t trust herself that way I do. 

“I thought that somehow it might make you love me less … to see that damage, the weakness ...”  My voice is a strained whisper, uttering after thirty years my twisted reasoning. The self-hatred wrapped up in that confession is darker in vocalization than in the empty, echoing cavern of my own mind.  

His frown deepens. He reaches out to cradle my face, and guide my head to his shoulder. I press as close as I can, inhaling against his neck and inundating my senses with the smell of his aftershave. 

He holds me for a long moment, pressing kisses against my hair, his hand moving in a soothing circle against my back. 

“Nothing …” He says, his voice low and determined, “... I mean  _ nothing,  _ Claire, will ever make me love you any less.” 

I close my eyes. 

I know now what he’s saying is true. I only wish  _ she  _ had known it. 

I let the embrace linger for another moment before I ease away, and rise from the couch. His fingers loop loosely around my wrist, halting my escape with gentility rather than force. I hesitate to look down and meet his gaze, but when I do, there’s no stopping my descent back down to the cushions. 

He claims my cheek with one hand, dragging me into a slow, thorough kiss that robs me of my will to fight. Acknowledging the pain, letting it wash through me, allowing him to shoulder the burden is all a slippery slope into paralytic trauma that I can’t abide. I don’t want to let him strip me of my armor, but I’m tired - no, exhausted - and the whiskey has gotten to my brain and blood where the fiercest fire of galvanized anger burned. I’ve kept myself running on spite and selective forgetfulness, but as his lips unweave my composure, I realize that fuel has drained away in the small hours of the morning. 

I sink back against the cushions, sucking in a shuddering breath in the brief interim between his persistent kisses. My body flushes, a new kind of fire burning away the old, angry flames. My racing blood is propelled by exhilaration instead of sickening rage, and it’s all I can do to stubbornly hold on to the last threads of resentment before they’re entirely melted away. 

At last, he relents. Letting me breathe, letting me look up at him, into his dark, persuasive eyes. 

There’s a silent battle between us for what feels like an eternity. 

I resist the patriarchal stereotype of his protection. He reminds me we’re on the same side, and he’s more than just another image of male dominance. He’s my husband, my lover, and this isn’t about protection. It’s about engraving in stone that nothing can change how he feels about me.

Under the duress of his gaze, I glance away. 

His mouth brushes against my cheek, a dusting of kisses that’s barely a distraction to keep me lax as his hand quests up my inner thigh. I draw in a shaky breath, trying to gather my ire - but the steel never comes. His hand cups me softly, fingers nudging against my clitoris through layers of cotton and silk. 

The massage goes on steadily for a long minute while his mouth follows the curve of my jaw to my ear. His breath spills hot against my lobe and down my throat. 

“This night will never end if you don’t close your eyes.” He whispers. 

I bite back a whimper as heat winds through my center, stirred to life by the caress of his fingers. I reach for the waistband of my trousers, the need for skin-to-skin contact undeniable even in the hazy clutch of anger. 

The silk clears my hips, and he takes over. He strips me of the pajama bottoms and then my panties, his motions quick and effective. His fingers are back between my legs, and against naked skin, in a matter of moments. The world tilts behind my eyelids, the dull gray shadows of despair splitting open to reveal the bright light and pulsating warmth of desire. 

I cry out, my voice strangled, almost guttural. It could have been a cry of pain, or of immense pleasure - an outsider would have never known. 

But he knows. 

And his fingers are precise and unerring against me, unraveling me from the middle and outward, pulling the pleasure to the surface, leaving me only with my need, bereft of anger. My body clutches and weakens, the rhythm of need fluctuating and bursting from dormancy to life. I arch from the satin cushions, and open my eyes to see the ceiling edged with the white light of pleasure. 

The weight of his body slides away from me. I can hardly speak as he goes down to his knees, replacing his fingers with the velvet stroke of his tongue. I sink down further against the couch, eagerly opening my thighs to accommodate. Panting, choking back whimpers of need, I lean my hips into his mouth, letting the absolute pleasure of his mouth wash over me.

He suckles the glaze of arousal from my labia, stealing away my breath before he proceeds to gently part the tender folds with a firm stroke, and curl his tongue inward and around my clitoris. 

My eyes roll back as pleasure spirals through my middle. Everything clamps tight. The ache pulsing steadily through me builds toward its pinnacle. I balance on the edge of climax, each wave that hits me teasing me with the promise of release before melding away into just another clench of arousal. 

Desperate now for the oblivion of orgasm, I grab a handful of his hair, and grind my hips into his face.

He grabs at my hips, and pins me down against the cushions. I’m helpless, gripping at the cushions and his hair, gasping in narrow inhales between breathless moments of straining need, unable to move beneath his powerful grasp. 

At last, he leans in, allowing his tongue to rub in persistent, perfect circles against my clitoris. My mind blanks to white as pleasure soars through me; the explosion of pleasure through my core echoes through my entire body, sending me into lurching, trembling spasms. 

He keeps the pressure on until I collapse in a heap of quaking limbs, and sensitized, aching flesh. As I relax and tremble in the aftershocks, he laps the final drops of release from me, until I’m moaning and pushing away the sweet torture. 

He leans back against his heels. His hands frame my knees, and his gaze keeps me pinned down against the couch. I close my eyes to avoid any question or remark he might make at the vulnerability in my gaze. 

I’m still humming with pleasure, but I feel weak and small - a sensation I’m not comfortable with. 

I feel him press a kiss against my knee, but I keep my eyes firmly shut. 

_ My eyes are closed now. This night can end.   _ It’s a thought - a wish among the hundreds of others I’ve clung to. 

I hear him rise from the floor. The couch dips beneath his weight, and his palm slides along my thigh. 

“Claire …” 

I sit up abruptly, opening my eyes. I can imagine a world where McGinnis doesn’t exist - I’ve done so for the past thirty years. Every night since he pinned me down, I’ve closed my eyes and pretended it didn’t happen. 

But that was a world for one. Francis knows now - he knows it all. That world is shattered. I can’t go on with my eyes closed. Closing my eyes won’t make it go away. This night will end, yes, but there will be tomorrow, and the night after that, and the night after that - on and on for the rest of history until the knowledge poisons me, until it comes to the surface and I explode with my secrets. 

I rise from the couch, and turn to face Francis. 

He gazes up at me, uncertain before he sees the look in my eyes. 

I unbutton the front of my shirt, and let it slide from my shoulders. My nipples harden to the exposure, catching his gaze. 

He unbuckles his belt, thumbs the button free, slides the zipper down.

A wavelength of need stretches between us, spiking with every glance, every breath, every tiny movement. 

By the time he gets his trousers and boxers down around his ankles, he’s hard and dusky pink with racing blood. 

I bring my knee over his leg, and grip the back of the couch to balance as I swing my other leg up onto the couch against his hip. Once I’m fully straddling him, I reach down to grip the base of his cock. His mouth purses tight over a moan, but the pleasure is written unmistakably across his face. His cock twitches against my palm as I lower myself to the head.

His hovering hands lose control, and grab brusquely onto my hips. In a  sudden rush of motion, I impale myself on his throbbing cock, and he clutches at my waist and the back of my neck. Our bodies fuse together as mine opens to accept his. I slide down completely, hips grinding against his.

His fingers climb along my nape, and into my hair, dragging my neck open. His mouth latches at my throat, just below my jaw. I can feel his moans vibrating into my skin and bone. 

I rock against him, stroking his cock within me, feeling the slow but constant influx of power returning to my blood. It feels good to take him, to feel him at my mercy beneath me. We can still turn on a dime like this - nothing has changed. 

My gradual undulating evolves to adamant thrusting. Fingers drag coarsely down my neck and back while his other hand squeezes in lurching hunger over my backside. His face is hidden in my neck, but I can well imagine the lax expression of bliss. 

The night is long and burned out - a candle flaming hot at the very end of it’s life. Those last few seconds are reckless and blinding. He doesn't hold out. I feel him stiffen against me, his breath coming in a stuttered, groaning gasp before the orgasm quakes through him. He shudders against me, and I feel the wet heat of release gush into me. 

I wrap my arms around his neck, cradling his head against my chest until the tremors and moans fade away. 

He leans back from the embrace, and reaches up to catch my face between his hands. I’m forced to look into his eyes. I feel as if I’m transported back to that moment behind Gaffney’s red brick church when he begged me to be honest. We’ve always been honest with each other, but this is the type of honesty that hurts. 

“I’m okay.” I say, even though I know it’s not what he wants to hear. “I’m okay, and so are you. We are.” 

The word echoes through my brain. Okay. “Okay” is relative, and a poor excuse for emotion. 

But he seems to know he can’t twist anymore from me. 

“We should go to bed. At least try to get some sleep.” He says. 

I nod. 

I rise slowly, disconnecting our bodies. 

We gather our rumpled clothes, and carry them upstairs. I go into the master bathroom, and turn on the shower, letting the water turn warm against my outstretched fingers. 

Silently, we step behind the curtain. His hands never leave my waist as I wash sweat and release from my skin. He takes the cloth from my hand, and washes my back in a soothing, swirling pattern. 

I lean against the cold ceramic of the wall while he cleans up, and close my eyes. My body is satisfied, but my mind is still awake and turning. In a way, while everything has changed, nothing really has at all. 

When we’re out of the shower and toweling off, I meet his gaze in the mirror. 

“You’re still angry.” He says. 

“So are you.” 

“There’s nothing else you can be after what that scum did to you.” 

Holding the towel against my chest, I turn around to look him. “I can work with anger.” 

His hair is half-damp and disheveled, his expression weary. I remember again that it’s so very late. I’ve kept him up all night with this secret, and a part of me wishes I hadn’t admitted it to him at all. 

“So can I.” He says, at length. 

“We have a lot of work to do. We can’t let this distract us, so we should use it instead.” 

He nods. 

“I want to be more than just the wife of the vice president.” 

He closes the space between us to leave a kiss simmering against the corner of my mouth. “You will be.” 

Without another word, we go back to bed. 

I’m surprised to find my eyes sliding shut and darkness rolling in so quickly. His body is wrapped around mine, the fleshly borders of us melding and our common threads of anger and ambition twining together. 

The anger is still there, but I feel a peace that I can’t ignore. Somehow, I feel that nothing can stop us now. 

 

~the end~

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> You can also find me on [Tumblr!](http://clairehales.tumblr.com//)!


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